I slip my hand beneath my waistband and wrap my fingers around my cock. The contact draws a sound from my throat—small and needy, almost embarrassing in its desperation—but there’s no one here to hear it. No one to judge.
I stroke slowly, letting the fantasy build. In my imagination, Oliver kisses me; soft at first, questioning, giving me every opportunity to pull away. But I don’t. I lean into it, opening for him, letting his tongue sweep against mine in a way that makes my real-world hips jerk offthe mattress.
You’ve never done this before, fantasy-Oliver says against my lips. And instead of being put off by my inexperience, he seems to relish it.Let me show you. Let me make it good for you.
My grip tightens. Precome slicks my palm, easing the friction as I stroke faster. The sheets have fallen away entirely now, bunched at the foot of the bed, and I’m exposed to the empty room, briefs pushed down around my thighs.
If my father could see me now, he’d die of a heart attack.
The fantasy shifts. We’re in Oliver’s room at the Hockey House. He’s kneeling between my legs, his green eyes dark with desire as he drinks me in.
So beautiful, he says before his hand wraps around my cock.
I moan again.
Fantasy-Oliver strokes me with the same confidence he brings to everything else. His thick thumb swipes over the head on each upstroke, spreading the wetness that’s gathered there. His other hand presses flat against my stomach, holding me down when my hips try to buck up into his touch.
Easy, he murmurs.I’ve got you. Just feel it.
I try to obey, try to let the pleasure wash over me without chasing it, but my body has other ideas. My hand moves faster, matching the rhythm of his strokes. The pressure building at the base of my spine intensifies with every passing second.
I’m close, and the fantasy is spiraling out of control, the images bleeding into each other. Oliver’s hand on my cock. Oliver’s mouth on my neck. Oliver whispering filthy, tender things while I writhe beneath him.
Come for me, Ryan. Let go. I’ve got you.
My back arches off the mattress, my mouth falls open in a silent cry, and I come harder than I ever have in my life. It pulses out of me in thick ropes, coating my fingers and stomach. The pleasure is intense and borders on painful, wringing every last drop from my body until I’m left trembling and spent on sweat-dampened sheets. When my breathing finally regulates itself, the reality ofit hits me hard.
The harsh jangle of the doorknob cuts through my afterglow. I jackknife upright, heart slamming against my ribs, and haul my underwear back into place.
“Ryan?” Jackson’s voice filters through the door. “You in there? I forgot my phone charger.”
“One second!” My voice comes out three octaves higher than normal. I grab the nearest shirt from my laundry pile and frantically wipe my hands, my stomach, anywhere the evidence might be visible. “Just give me a second!”
“You okay? You sound weird.”
“Fine! I’m fine! Just waking up!”
I shove the incriminating shirt under my pillow, pull on a pair of sweatpants, and spend approximately two seconds trying to compose my face into something that doesn’t scream, “I was thinking about Oliver Jacoby’s hand on my dick.” I fail spectacularly, but I open the door anyway.
Jackson blinks at me. Takes in my flushed cheeks, my disheveled hair, the way I’m very carefully not making eye contact.
“Dude,” he says slowly. “Were you?—”
“Phone charger’s on your desk.” I step aside, gesturing with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “Right there. See it? Great. Take it. Bye.”
Jackson’s lips twitch. The bastard is trying not to laugh. “Ryan?—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to?—”
“Good. Great. Conversation over.”
He retrieves his charger with agonizing slowness, his grin growing wider with every passing second. At the door, he pauses and turns back.
“If it helps,” he says gently, “I did the same thing when I was torturing myself over Drew. Right there”—he points to his bed—“with my legs up on the wall and a finger in my ass.”
My face, which had finally started to cool, burns again.
